At Death’s Door.
No one would take me into his tent, and I was thus quite at my wit’s
end. I retired to a distance of some dozen yards and, looking at the
four or five tents which appeared to be warm and cozy, remembered
Buḍḍha’s words: “For him who has no relationship to me, it is very
difficult to receive salvation from me.” These people were perfect
strangers to me, and therefore slept comfortably in their tents, while
I had to lie down on the cold ground, exposed to the severe winds. But,
I thought, the fact that I had asked them for a lodging might have
created a certain relationship, by means of which they might yet be
saved, and that it would not be quite in vain if I read the Holy Texts
for their salvation. Of course this was merely my duty as a follower
of Buḍḍha, whose love is universal. So I sat down on the ground and
recited the Buḍḍhist Text, with the kindest intentions. After a while
the girl whom I had lately asked for a lodging peeped from her tent and
stared at me, then hastily withdrew. Presently she appeared a second
time and, approaching me, said that she supposed I was conjuring evil
spirits to punish her and her mother for their refusal to lodge me.
This must not be done, said she. She and her mother had now agreed
that they should entertain me in their tent, and she had been sent for
me. There was something comical in the fact that my kind intentions
should be taken for revengeful motives, and that those motives should
be rewarded with kindness. But I attributed all to the benevolence
of Buḍḍha, and thankfully accepted the girl’s invitation. A Buḍḍhist
service was held that evening.
The following morning I left the tent very early, and walked south-east
for two miles and a half in a hilly district. Quite unexpectedly, two
men rushed out from behind a rock and stopped me. As they did not seem
like robbers, though they were armed, I was simple enough to think that
they were natives of the place making a trip. They approached close to
me and asked me what I had. I replied, “I had Buḍḍhism”. They did not
understand what I said and exclaimed:
“What is that you have on your back?”
“That is my food.”
“What is that sticking out on your breast?”
“That is my silver.”
No sooner had the last answer been given, than the men seized my
sticks, and I understood at once that they were robbers. Promptly
making up my mind what to do, I said:
“You want something of me?”
“Of course!” one of them said, showing his teeth.
“Well, then, there is no use in hurrying. I will give you all you want.
Be calm, and say what you want.”
“Produce your silver first.”
I gave them my purse.
“You seem to have some valuables on your back. Let us see.”
I obeyed. They also demanded to see my bag, which was being carried on
the goat, and, after ransacking it, returned me the Scriptures, the
bed-clothes that were heavy, and a few other things that were useless
to them. They took, however, all my food, saying that they needed it,
although neither could I do without food.
[Illustration: ATTACKED BY ROBBERS.]
It is a rule among the robbers of Tibet that, having taken all they
want, they should give their victim enough food for some three days,
provided that the latter read the Texts and ask for food. I thought
I would follow this custom, and I said that I possessed in my
breast-cloth a silver pagoda, containing relics of Buḍḍha, which Mr.
Ḍhammapāla of India had asked me to present to the Dalai Lama, and
which I did not wish to lose. The highwaymen at once wanted to know if
I could not give it to them, and I replied that if they wanted it I
would give it, but that as a layman could not keep it properly, they
must expect some misfortune as a punishment for their sacrilege.
So saying, I produced the pagoda and invited them to open it. This
was probably more than they expected. They would not even touch it,
but asked me to place it upon their heads with my benediction. I held
the pagoda over their heads and, reciting the three Refuges and Five
Commandments of Buḍḍha, prayed that their sins might be extinguished by
the merit of Ḍharma.
Then I stood up, and was going to ask of them a few days’ rations, when
two men on horseback put in an appearance far ahead, and before I could
look round, the robbers had gathered together all that they had seized,
and made off in the opposite direction. They ran over the mountains
like hares, and it was quite out of the question for me to give them
chase. I thought, therefore, to ask the horsemen for provisions. But
for some reason or other they climbed a mountain ahead of me, and did
not come as far as where I was. I called out to them and made signs by
turning my right hand inwards, according to the Tibetan custom. Perhaps
my voice did not reach them, or they had some business demanding urgent
attendance, for they paid no attention to me. Still I had left eight
Indian gold coins which I had kept close to my skin. My baggage having
been greatly diminished, I placed it all on my goat, and went on with
my journey. It was a steep mountain pass, and before I had travelled
eight miles it became dark. The night was spent as usual in bivouacking
in a crevice between the rocks.
The following morning I wished to take a north-easterly direction, so
as to reach a certain post-town; but having no compass, I could not
ascertain my bearings, and seem to have strayed off to the south-east
and eventually due south, instead of north-east, as I should have done.
The snow began to fall at three o’clock in the afternoon, and I walked
and walked until the evening, but met not a single human being. I was
exceedingly hungry, and so thirsty that I ate the snow. One meal a day
would have been sufficient for me, but the absolute fasting gave me no
small pain.
Darkness and hunger compelled me to stop, and I selected a hollow in
the ground as my bed, clearing it of snow. As there is always a danger
of being frozen dead when one is beset by a snow-storm in a vast
plain, I took the precaution to hold my breath, so as to minimise the
communication with the outside air, according to the methods learned
during my Buḍḍhist training. This, I think, is the best method for
bivouacking in the snow, and I soon fell asleep in the hollow.
On waking early next morning I saw the snow had fallen to a great
depth, but the weather was fine; and when I looked around, I thought
the mountains ahead resembled the hilly district called Nahru-ye, where
I had once been in the company of some herdsmen. Proceeding further,
I found the familiar Kyang-chu river, which I was delighted to see.
Sustained by the hope of finding some old acquaintances at Nahru-ye,
I walked some five miles in that direction. But nowhere was there any
human being to be seen; there was nothing but the snow. I was almost
despairing, owing to my extreme hunger and thirst, for I was entirely
exhausted, though I had no heavy baggage to carry. But I had to walk on
and on, eating a little snow from time to time to allay my hunger.
I thought that by travelling farther across the Kyang-chu river, I
should reach the place where Alchu Lama lived. He never wandered far
away from that place, and I might find him there; so I decided upon
travelling in that direction. I crossed the river about nine miles
above the place where I had crossed it on the previous occasion. The
water had decreased to about one-fifth of its usual amount, and it was
just freezing. I broke the ice with my sticks and crossed the river.
If the ice had been thick, the crossing of the river would have been a
very easy task, but the thin ice entailed the danger to the traveller
of being thrown into the deep current, and injured by the ice-blocks.
After many difficulties I reached the opposite bank, and walked due
south.
Then the baggage which was being carried by the goat got lost. It
contained what the robbers had left--a carpet made of sheep-skin,
shoes, drugs, and such things. I searched everywhere, but in vain. I
had to give up my search and proceed further, for I wished to reach
a tent before night, as sleeping amid the snow on the open field
for several nights consecutively would mean the end of my life; so
I pushed on until eight o’clock and had covered twenty miles, when
another trouble cropped up in the shape of terrible pain in the eyes,
the result of the strong glare of the sun on the snow. My eyes felt as
if they would burst, and I could not remain quiet. Moreover the snow
recommenced falling in the evening, and the cold was extreme, and when
I lay down I felt the biting coldness of the snow on my head. I pressed
the snow on my eyes, but it did not lessen the pain in the least. A
cold sweat broke out all over me from the pain and cold, and, in trying
to calm myself, I found that my body was becoming benumbed by the
frost. I tried keeping my eyes shut, and anointed them abundantly with
the oil of cloves. But slumber was far from me. I rivetted my thoughts
on Buḍḍhism, and was doing my best to keep down the pain, when, quite
unexpectedly, I was inspired with an _uta_, which runs:
Upon these plains of snow, my bed is snow,
My pillow, snow; my food also the same;
And this my snowy journey, full of pain.
The effusion soothed my heart, and I felt more than ever thankful for
the beauty of the Japanese language.
The next day, October 1, 1900, at about six in the morning I decided
to proceed on my journey. The snow had ceased, and the sun was shining
brightly, to the increased pain of my eyes. I could not walk with my
eyes shut; and yet the pain of keeping them open, however slightly, was
more than I could bear. I was so overcome by it that I would from time
to time fall down, wherever I might be. I had had no food for nearly
four days, and was so weak that the smallest stone lying in the snow
would bring me down. Fortunately I sustained no injury, owing to the
softness of the snow and the lightness of my body. There was a time,
however, when I got quite exasperated by hunger, the pain in my eyes,
and the weakness of my legs, and sat down in the snow, feeling that
I was fated to die. Intellectually, however, death was far from my
thoughts. Were there only some means of getting rid of my bodily pains,
I thought I could walk on and on, and at last reach safety.
At this juncture a horseman put in an appearance far ahead. I strained
my eyes, though with terrible pain, and thus made out that it was a
horseman. I stood up at once and signalled him to approach. I wished
to shout but could not; the effort seemed to choke me, and it was
only after enormous exertion that I squeezed out two feeble shouts
and wildly gesticulated. The horseman, having apparently observed me,
galloped towards me, to my great joy. Soon he was beside me, asking me
what I was doing in such a desert of snow, and I told him with uncommon
difficulty that I had been robbed of most of my baggage, had lost what
remained to me _en route_, and had had nothing to eat for over three or
four days. He was a young man, full of sympathy. Though he was provided
with extra provisions, he said, he would give me only some sweetmeats,
made of cream and brown sugar, a food which is esteemed as a rare
delicacy in the northern steppes of Tibet. I swallowed down the food
which he gave me so hurriedly that I did not even taste it.
I then enquired of him if I could not find a lodging hereabouts. His
reply was that he was a pilgrim, and that his parents and others were
staying beside the mountain ahead of us, and that I should be able to
obtain some accommodation there. He therefore advised me to come to his
tent, and, saying that he was in hurry, galloped away in that direction.
The distance was only a little above two miles, but I do not remember
how often I stumbled and fell down, and rested, and ate snow, before I
reached the tent. More than three hours were occupied on the journey,
and I did not reach the tent till past eleven o’clock, when the
young man came out to welcome me. His parents congratulated me on my
narrow escape from death, and entertained me with the best sort of
Tibetan food, which consisted of boiled rice covered with butter, and
accompanied by sugar and raisins. I did not take much of the food, for
fear that the sudden repletion might injure me, but I took a little
milk after a very modest repast. The pain in my eyes was no better.
There was no medicine, and the best I could do was to cool them with
snow. In spite of the fine bed with which I was accommodated I could
not sleep that night, owing to the pain I felt in my eyes.
These people, being pilgrims, were intending to move on day by day. The
next morning, therefore, I also had to proceed on my journey. But it
was some time before they could start, for they had to pull down the
tents and pack them on the yaks. I finished my tea therefore, and went
out of doors, while they were busily engaged in packing their effects.
I had walked to the further end of a row of four or five tents, when
seven or eight ferocious Tibetan dogs attacked me, barking loudly.
Handicapped as I was with the pain in my eyes, I could not deal with
these dogs so deftly as at other times. At first, I kept my eyes open
and brandished my two sticks, driving back the animals, which attacked
me from all sides. But once I was obliged to close my eyes, and
immediately a dog behind me seized one of my sticks. The next moment
another dog fastened his teeth on my right leg, and threw me down.
I uttered a feeble cry for help, which brought several men on the
scene, and they drove away the dogs with stones. But the blood flowed
out abundantly from the wound, which I held fast with my hands, and I
lay motionless until an aged dame brought me some medicine, which she
said was a marvellous cure for such wounds. I dressed the wound with
the medicine and bandaged it, and attempted to rise, but in vain. It
was impossible for me to stand up.
But as it was equally impossible that I should lie down there for ever,
I asked the people what they would advise me to do, and if they did
not know the whereabouts of Alchu Lama, whom I thought to be in that
vicinity. They asked me if I was acquainted with Alchu Lama, and, on
being answered in the affirmative, one of them volunteered to carry me
on his horse to the tent of Alchu Lama, who he said, being a physician,
would be able to cure me alike of the wound and of the eye-disease. I
rose with the support of the sticks, one of which broke under me and
had to be thrown away, and mounted on the horse.
Arriving at a place where there stood two tents, I perceived that these
tents were smaller than those of Alchu Lama. Though wondering at heart,
I alighted from the horse, and enquired at one of the tents for the
Lama, and I was informed that this was not the Lama’s tent, but that
of his wife’s father. I wanted to reach the Lama’s tents somehow, and
was speaking to that effect, when the wife, hearing my voice, said that
I was the revered Lama who had made a pilgrimage to the snowy peak of
Tise, and came out to see me.
“Where is your Lama?” I asked.
“He lives about two miles east of this place.”
“I wish to find him. Have you no one to take me to him?”
“I have nothing to do with the Lama any more, nor can I take you. But
if you want to go there, I will direct the man who has brought you here
to accompany you.”
“But why do you not yourself return to your own home?”
“Oh, there is no man so wicked as he; I intend to leave him.”
“That is not good,” said I.
Then we had a long talk, and after I had been given a repast, I rode to
the Lama’s tent.
The Lama being out, I was received by his domestics. When he returned
home in the evening, I related my adventures to him and asked him for
some medicine. He kindly dressed my wound with excellent drugs, and
gave me purgatives, saying that it was necessary for me to purge my
body in order to prevent the diffusion throughout my system of poison
which some of the dogs injected by their bites. He also said that I
should stay with him for at least a week, in order to recuperate.
Thanks to his directions, which I obeyed, I was in a few days greatly
relieved of the suffering both in my leg and eyes.
I had experienced enough of hardship, and had very poor prospects of
an easy life in the future. But still there was a genuine pleasure in
pushing on through hardships. About that time I composed a poem:
All bitter hardships in this world of woe,
Have I thus tasted now during this life;
None will be left for me to suffer more.
One day I asked the Lama why he had sent his wife to her parents,
whereupon he explained the shortcomings of his wife. Both had their
reasons, and I could not say which was wrong. But, I said, the man
ought to have magnanimity and to console his wife, so that it was
advisable for the Lama to send for his wife to come back. I supported
my advice by the doctrines of Buḍḍhism, and made him yield to my
proposal. He sent two of his men for his wife, who, after making some
fuss, returned to his tent the same evening.
The following day, when I referred to the Discourse on the Five Vices,
which is included in the Gospel of the Buḍḍha _Life Eternal_ (one of
the three books of the Jōdō Sect, but not found in the Tibetan Canon)
the Lama expressed his desire to hear a lecture on it. I consented to
the request and expounded the discourse on the days following. The
sermon in question treats of all imaginable vices and sins devised by
mankind, arranging them into five classes and explaining them in the
most appropriate manner. During my lecture on this discourse the couple
were so deeply moved to repentance for their sins that they wept and at
times asked me to suspend the lecture. As their repentance was sincere,
I congratulated them on their progress in virtue. I stayed with them
for some ten days, and my bodily troubles were so much relieved that I
was able to regale my eyes with the magnificent view of the snow and
ice, lit up by the serene moon-light. This lovely scenery of nature
caused me to think of my country, and I had occasion to compose many
_utas_, two of which were as follows:
The spotless sky is bathed in light serene
By that cold moon with her all-tranquil ray;
This pleasant scene fires me with memories sweet
Of that dear mother-land now far away.
Here on these lonely steppes the grass is dry,
No reeds, no autumn flowers show their smiles;
On high the moon shines on these wilds alone,
Enhancing thus the loneliness profound.
[Illustration: THE COLD MOON REFLECTED ON THE ICE.]